Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
St. Ives had exhaled.
Mid-semester exams had strangled the entire campus for two weeks. Library seats had become battlegrounds, café tables buried under textbooks, and even the most elite students, who never deigned to look stressed, had been seen pale and running on espresso.
Today, the pressure had broken. The whole town was finally breathing again.
And so, with almost reckless enthusiasm, the streets of St. Ives town had come alive for Founders’ Day.
Bea had expected something elegant. A sophisticated, high-powered display of wealth. Instead, the town had transformed into something warm, bright, chaotically sweet.
Cobbled streets were lined with lilac garlands, colorful stalls, and tables spilling with peonies, pastries, and mulled wine.
The scent of sizzling butter and fried dough drifted through the air.
Families walked hand in hand, children ran past in streaks of white and navy, laughing as they clutched candy-striped bags.
It felt like a city caught in nostalgia. A memory, wrapped in laughter and gold-foiled chocolates.
“So, what actually is Founders’ Day?”
“It’s the date the Dutch first settled here in the seventeenth century. That’s when the UR started forming—trade networks, naval power, everything that made it what it is now.”
“The Dutch, huh?” she mused. “That’s why everyone here is so tall.”
“The short ones are usually the imports.”
Bea smacked his arm lightly, but her smile lingered.
They wandered deeper into the festival, past a market stall selling fresh stroopwafels. Behind it, a row of horses were hitched to carriages, ready for rides through town. A group of musicians played beneath wisteria-draped lanterns.
They came to an old fountain, sunlight piercing through the water’s surface, reflecting off scattered change that glimmered beneath.
She watched as an older couple leaned over the edge, whispering something before they tossed in a pair of silver coins.
She watched them disappear beneath the surface, then looked up at him.
“Do you ever make a wish?”
He shot her a look. “Do I look like I would?”
Her smile curved, just slightly. “Mine came true.”
He waited.
“Our group was picked for IGNITE.”
That caught him.
IGNITE was a relatively new but fiercely competitive end-of-year invitational backed by Griffin Ventures.
At the start of every academic year, junior and senior students from the St. Ives business faculty formed teams, pooling talent across disciplines to craft fully realized business pitches.
The objective was simple: turn theory into execution—market analysis, financial forecasting, brand strategy, logistical frameworks—each component sharpened for real-world impact.
Two years ago, Griffin Ventures raised the stakes on what had once been a university project.
They convinced St. Ives to grant them exclusive access to the presentations, transforming IGNITE from a classroom exercise into a high-stakes proving ground.
Ten teams were chosen to pitch live in front of GV executives and venture partners.
GV didn’t need the ideas—they had more projects than they could build.
What they wanted was talent. People who could think fast, sell harder, and stand their ground when the heat hit.
Winning wasn’t just an accolade. It was an invitation into the kinds of rooms most graduates spent a lifetime trying to enter.
There was a pause so brief she almost missed it. His expression turned opaque, a quietness she knew meant he was processing. A second later, his features settled back into place, water smoothing over stone.
“Of course you were picked,” he said, as though there had never been any doubt. “Well done, sweetheart.”
Her chest pulled tight. It was probably silly, how much it meant to her. His praise never sounded like flattery.
She bumped him lightly with her shoulder. “Will you come?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” He reached for her hand, fingers closing around hers. That was how she knew he was proud. She didn’t need him to say more.
Bea’s gaze flitted across the crowd as they walked on. She saw Georgina with Hunter, her arm hooked comfortably through his as she chatted with Naomi and Isabel, who were sharing a box of mini pancakes.
Lillian stood near a pastry stall, her small hands cupped around something warm, watching the festivities with tranquil fascination. Beside her was one of the men from their econ class. Bea made a mental note to ask her about that later.
Rafael stood near the fencing arena, watching the match. There was an ease to him that made him look like he belonged everywhere, without ever trying. Beside him, a tall, blonde woman laughed at something he said, her hand brushing his arm, eyes bright with interest.
It shouldn’t have bothered her. She told herself it didn’t.
A few turns off the main square, a narrow canal curved through the heart of the town. Wooden rowboats bobbed at the dock, waiting for couples and families to climb aboard for a scenic float.
Bea slowed. “Do you want to…”
“No.”
She pouted. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“It’s not hard to guess.”
Her lips parted, incredulous. “You don’t want to row a boat with me?”
“I don’t want to row a boat at all.”
Bea scoffed, already stepping toward the dock. “Then I’ll row.”
“Bea.”
She turned, walking backward, grinning. “What’s wrong? Afraid of the water?”
“I own a yacht,” he said dryly.
“Then we should be fine,” she teased.
Gage sighed, resigned.
The attendant barely looked up as he took their payment, waving them toward the next available boat. Bea climbed in first, settling onto the wooden bench, and reached for the oars. “Well?”
Gage hung back on the dock, looking like he was calculating. “Move forward, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
“I’m nearly twice your weight. We’ll tip.”
She moved. Carefully, he sat behind her. The boat still rocked slightly.
“Stay balanced,” he instructed.
Bea looked back at him, rolling her shoulders. “It’s rowing. Not rocket science.” She heaved. Nothing happened. Bea frowned. Adjusted. Pulled again. The boat jerked sideways. “I just need to get the angle right.”
The boat half-spun in place, wobbling.
A passing group of tourists in another boat actually pointed and laughed.
Bea groaned. Prayed that none of them were live-streaming. If she went viral, Claire would never let her hear the end of it. Not in this lifetime.
“You’re doing great.” There was tightness in his voice.
Bea huffed. She refused to look at him.
“It’s fine,” she muttered. “I’ve got it.” She tugged harder. The boat lurched sideways and bumped the dock with a solid thunk.
Bea slumped forward, exasperated.
A boat full of old women, dressed in neat pastel coats and wide-brimmed hats, tsked as they glided smoothly past. One of them adjusted her pearl necklace, giving Bea a look of quiet disapproval, while another leaned toward her friend, whispering something that made them all nod in agreement.
Bea peeked back at him. “Okay. Maybe you should row.”
Gage looked at her, unblinking. Not judging, just infuriating forbearance.
She clutched the oars defensively, eyes narrowing. “What?”
He just held out a hand, palm up.
Her grip tightened. “I loosened it for you.”
“Give me the oars, sweetheart.”
She made a face, then passed them to him.
Gage adjusted his position, stretching out his legs as he gripped the oars. Then, without so much as looking down, he rowed. Perfectly. Easily. The boat glided forward in a clean, smooth stroke.
Bea stared. “…Okay, rude.”
Gage’s lips twitched. He didn’t look up. “What?”
“I don’t like how good you are at this.”
“Why?”
“Because I struggled. You’re supposed to struggle too.”
His brows lifted. “Why would I do that?”
Bea crossed her arms. “To make me feel better.”
She felt the amusement radiating from him. Tried not to be endeared by it because, really, his competence was sort of annoying sometimes.
“You own a yacht.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t row it.”
“Correct.”
“Then why are you so good at this?”
Gage’s lips quirked, but he didn’t answer. Just kept rowing, completely unbothered.
Bea scowled, sinking back into her seat. “I loosened it for you.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
The sun dipped lower, the sky melting into deep indigo. Lanterns lit up in unison, their honeyed glow over the bustling square drawing the crowd together.
The Founding Speech, always last, carried through the night.
A rich, rolling cadence, weaving stories of heritage and ambition.
Reminders of why the United Republic of Westhaven stood proud in the world.
Some stood, hands clasped in silent respect; others settled onto benches, heads tilted to listen.
A reverence settled over the audience. The belief that this place was worth staying for, building for, defending, was woven deep, unbreakable.
She wondered what it was like to grow up with that kind of belonging. That kind of certainty.
When it ended, the lanterns dimmed just slightly, as if even the lights knew the night had reached its close.
“What happens next?” Bea asked as vendors packed up their stalls around them.
“Dinner. Just us.” One corner of his mouth perked. “And no boats.”
Bea huffed a laugh. “You’ll never let that go, will you?”
“Not a chance.”
She jabbed him lightly in the side. It didn’t do much. He wasn’t ticklish, and his body felt like it’d been hewn against an anvil. The whole concept of softness just didn’t apply to him.
They slowly made their way toward the quieter streets. Bea observed the way Gage didn’t hurry her, how he matched his pace to hers. “I didn’t expect today to be like this,” she admitted.
“Like what?”
“Wholesome.” She glanced around. “I always think of St. Ives as…elite.” Elitist. “But this felt…different.”
Gage’s thumb brushed against her knuckles. “Tradition runs deep here. Even the most powerful men in the country grew up coming to this. We could probably recite the Founding Speech.” He looked at her. “You like this kind of thing.”
She smiled. “I do.”
He held her gaze. “Why?”
Bea thought about that. “I don’t know,” she said at first. “I think…I like knowing that behind all the wealth, there’s something real. Something human.”
She gazed at the tall, gabled facades, their brickwork softened by ivy and centuries of history, shutters painted in crisp bright colors. “That it’s not just strategy and legacy. That people built it. Lived in it, loved in it.”
Gage watched her. “You like knowing there’s more to this place than just power.”
She nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think so.”
Gage didn’t reply. But his fingers intertwined with hers, his grip warm and steady. Perhaps he knew she was right, but didn’t want to admit it out loud.
The restaurant was exactly perfect.
Warm light spilled through stained-glass windows, pooling across worn brick walls and dark wood tables that were slightly off-kilter against the slate floors. It felt lived-in, familiar. A place that had absorbed decades of whispered conversations and slow, late dinners.
There was no rush.
The meal stretched naturally, no courses, no fanfare. Just traditional dishes: tender beef ribs, festive bread still warm from the oven, a bowl of rich, aromatic soup. The kind of food meant to be shared with people who mattered.
As they rose to leave, Bea’s heart began to pound, the rhythm increasing.
Gage’s hands skimmed her shoulder as he helped her into her coat.
He paused, fingertips grazing the back of her neck as he gathered her hair, sweeping it over her shoulder.
The contact was innocent enough, but it sent a ripple of awareness all the way down to her knees.
By the time they stepped outside, she already knew where they were heading next.
Gage dipped his hands into his pockets, watching her with a patience that felt like control. Lifted a single brow. The question hung in the cool night air.
Where to?
Bea tried to pull herself together, breathing through the rush of adrenaline that sparked along her skin. She was fine. Except for the fact her pulse had relocated to her mouth.
“Yours.”